


Bed-Stuy

by wildechilde17



Series: The business trilogy [8]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Advent Calendar, F/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Pets, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8731447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildechilde17/pseuds/wildechilde17
Summary: Day two of the Clintasha Advent Challenge: Pets





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squisim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squisim/gifts), [icarusinflight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusinflight/gifts).



"Aw Dog! Stop!"

The floppy eared cyclone of a one eyed mutt skids round the corner on the stairs barely missing the wall that may have knocked him out.

"Seriously?" Clint half mutters, he's never had this kind of energy so soon after being shot. It is like the dog thinks Clint's taking him to an apartment full of pizza and scratches. Not the empty shit hole with.... shit he forgot to get coffee filters.

Dog is circling, sniffing and giving off a sound like an almost ready kettle.

"Yeah, you got it boy. This one's mine."

Clint fumbles with his keys, his knuckles are still roughed up and don't like moving in his pocket. He thoughtlessly scratches at the dog's neck. Dog settles, his hindquarters collapsing behind him and the faint, continuous whine clicking off to be replaced with a wet open mouthed yawn.

Clint's barely got the door open, jiggle left, jiggle right, lower left kick, when Dog takes off, barreling through.

"Hello," says a voice, who does not sound like she just got the wind knocked out of her, "Who are you?"

Natasha.

"Get down," he orders, "She's not yours." Dog doesn't care about Clint's orders. Dog wants to know everything about the redhead lady in the middle of the room. Clint pulls on the scruff of the dog's neck pulling him away from Natasha's shoulders. 

"I'm Clint, we've met," he answers her.

"And my current suitor's name?" Natasha says, one side of her mouth quirking into a dry smile. Dog is licking at her hand like it's better than pizza.

"Uh.... yeah..." he says, scratching at the back of his neck, "I'm working on it. He had a stupid name. I'm just calling him pizza dog for the time being."

"A name more stupid than pizza dog? What a tragedy," she muses.

Natasha crouches and rubs the mutt's ears, "You are injured pizza dog." She says it to the dog but boy does it manage to sound like an accusation.

"Yeah. Long story," he grunts, she stands again, she scans him, "You're back?"

"A few days," she says lightly.

"Kay," he says 'cause there isn't an answer to that that they haven't gone over ten thousand times. "He likes you."

"You could come back," she says ignoring him.

"So could you."

"Jobs not done," she answers and it's layers of tired and scared and certain and sad and resigned and nothing he says will change it.

"Jobs never done, Tasha." He shrugs. He just sounds tired.

Natasha Romanoff stares at him. She haloed by the low afternoon sun coming through a window he has never cleaned. In jeans, a jacket and a hoodie pulled up over her curls of red hair she is beautiful and heartbreaking.

"A rescue?" she asks him after a moment where they both fail to stop staring.

"Pretty sure I'm the rescue," he mutters.

She sighs then, soft, sad, infuriated in one small noise. "Are you going to kiss me?"

"Nah."

"No?!" she says, instantly appalled by him. And he knows she's really here then, knows that she isn't back from some role, unsure of who she really is and surrounded by people too self-absorbed or naive to know the difference. He knows it's his Tasha who found a few days and came to find him.

He chuckles then, let's himself relax into it. "You're covered in dog slobber."

"Fine," she says making a show of turning back for the overnight bag on his old brown couch.

"I'm kidding," he says, though they both know it without him saying it. He pulls her hand, dragging her into him.

 "You, you dog?" The mutt’s ears quirk up, his head tilted like when Clint's trying to catch the words he knows in Russian from one of Natasha's angry rants. "You're the luckiest fucken," he shakes his head, God, he missed the smell of her, the feel of her, "you know how long it was before she'd let me kiss her?"

"You wait any longer, Hawkeye," she says in a voice like molasses, "you are going to miss your shot."

It feels right. 

“Com'ere you."

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe, just maybe I can manage to write this many words each day and still get all my work done.


End file.
